Chrysanthemum Throne a closely guarded secret

A gabled three-storey house in a district not far from Tokyo Bay was recently the subject of an impassioned debate that says a lot about how the Japanese regard their imperial family.

The house was the family home of Empress Michiko, and had been offered to the Government in lieu of inheritance tax after her father died in 1999. Officials had now decided to demolish the house and auction off the land.

For some local residents it was all too much. They formed a group to raise money to buy the house. "We desperately want to preserve the building, which is our heart and soul," said Ikuo Sumi. "We don't want the Finance Ministry to make the empress cry."

Back across the moat at the imperial palace, it seems the empress was not quite moved to tears by the heartless bureaucrats. According to the Imperial Household Agency's vice grand steward, Shingo Haketa, while the empress appreciated the gesture, she did "not have the feeling of wanting it maintained".

The house is still standing, although it seems the wrecker's ball may still swing. There are plans for the local council to buy the land and build a park. ");document.write("

advertisement

");
}
}
// -->

Regardless of the fate of the house, the episode shows how ordinary Japanese still feel about their monarchy. As Britain's soap opera royalty lurches from one shabby crisis to the next, the Chrysanthemum Throne retains a respect and popularity they only dream about at Buckingham Palace.

Opinion polls regularly put satisfaction levels with the imperial family in the 80 per cent plus range. The closest thing to scandal emerged 10 years when a magazine carried a story from an alleged dissatisfied palace staffer complaining that one individual demanded instant noodles and an apple at 2am.

This month Australia will catch a glimpse of the imperial family when Crown Prince Naruhito and Crown Princess Masako spend three days in Sydney and Canberra. Alas, they will be without the imperial family's main attraction, their daughter Aiko, who turned one last Sunday.

In the days surrounding her birthday the Japanese media were full of respectfully crafted stories on the baby's big day. As Japan's biggest selling daily, the Yomiuri, reported, she now has seven teeth.

"Ai means love or affection in Japanese," the paper said. "True to her name, the princess has received much affection in her first year - not only from her [parents], but from the public in general - winning hearts with her innocent smiles and gestures."

Of course, all this is true, but the reverential tone adopted by the media partly explains why the imperial family maintains its esteemed place in Japan.

Instead of being pursued by feral tabloids, the Japanese media maintain a self-imposed code of conduct in reporting matters imperial. The secretive Imperial Household Agency, which oversees all aspects of the imperial family, has its own kisha, or press club. This is the system where media organisations form a closed shop to report on certain areas, from the prime minister's office to the local council.

The agency commands a huge influence over its reporters. When the princess was pregnant with Aiko there was virtually no reporting after the agency announced she was "showing signs of pregnancy."

The silence stemmed from the extensive coverage of the princess becoming pregnant in December 1999, only to miscarry early in the new year.

The agreed censorship has also extended to the issue of whether Aiko could ascend the throne - a moot point given the imperial family has not produced a male heir in 30 years. In June the agency vetoed a question on the subject to Emperor Akihito, who gave a rare news conference before a European tour. On Thursday the question to the crown prince and princess from foreign journalists was only allowed after some argy bargy.

Yet even when a member of the imperial family says something newsworthy, the Japanese media may choose not to report it.

This occurred last December when the emperor gave a news conference for his birthday and said he felt a close "kinship" with Korea, as one of his eighth-century ancestors was descended from Korean immigrants.

The emperor's comments challenged the traditional view of the "pure" Japanese nation and imperial line. In Korea it was front-page news, but hardly rated a mention in most Japanese media.

This self-censorship also stems from likely reaction to criticism of the imperial family. Japan's sinister right-wing still has the potential to react with fury to perceived attacks. In 1988 the mayor of Nagasaki remarked that the dying Emperor Hirohito was responsible for Japan's disastrous role in World War II. Two years later he survived a shooting by a member of a right-wing group.

Yet a compliant media is only part of explanation for the popularity of the imperial family. Hirohito's son, Emperor Akihito, has also skilfully managed a break from the war-time legacy of his father.

Japan's postwar constitution written by the Americans did away with the divine emperor as supreme commander of the armed forces. In postwar Japan, the emperor became the "symbol of the state and the unity of the people", devoid of power.

For Emperor Akihito this role has meant extensive travelling around Japan, and in times of national crisis, such as the 1995 Kobe earthquake, visiting the devastated and offering encouragement. For most pre-war Japanese, the first time they heard his father's voice was when he broadcast his country's surrender.

The imperial family remains relatively isolated for most Japanese, yet the current emperor has done much to break down the separation between the monarchy and its people.

Can the popularity of the Chrysanthemum Throne survive the new century? While the high ratings in the opinion polls remain steady, critics are wondering whether the love affair is showing signs of waning. The birth of Aiko was expected to lift the nation from its economic gloom, but the feel-good effect was less than expected.

When Aiko was born, most television networks scheduled special programs on the event. Television Tokyo decided against it, and scored a ratings coup with its Saturday Special, a very un-imperial lifestyle show featuring new recipes, restaurants and places to stay.